


A Deserved Rest

by aella



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, 221B drabble, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:18:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aella/pseuds/aella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a difficult couple of weeks with a difficult case; everyone needs to rest, especially John (who seems to have found himself a bit beaten up). More than anything, this is a shameless excuse for them to lounge about the flat. I would suspect that the luxury of being able to laze around is not a common occurrence, due to their personalities and frenzied schedules. They intend to take advantage of their down-time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One of my submissions for 221-b; please forgive me if I’ve made overt grammar mistakes, English isn’t my first language.

For the most part, his shoulder bothered him very little. The wound, while certainly traumatic, had healed well and only disturbed him after a good amount of physical activity.

Tonight was certainly a case of over-exertion. John sat stiffly on the couch as he listened to Sherlock bang about in the kitchen.

What had been the thing that tipped him over into total fatigue? The tumble down a half-flight of stairs? The brawl in the middle of the street with the man they’d been chasing? Or the fact that he held the criminal down until Lestrade and his entourage had arrived?

All of those things, probably, he thought as he absently rubbed his shoulder. He dropped his hands and sighed, looking at his palms and the abrasions that marred the skin, the aftermath of the scuffle on the pavement. Sherlock had escaped most of the collateral damage, having spent the majority of the chase shouting directions into his mobile in hopes that Lestrade would be able to find them.

John was so lost in thought that he failed to hear Sherlock behind him until a mug of tea had been placed on the table. Long fingers probed mechanically at his shoulder and John winced, despite himself.

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock breathed, and John felt a cool hand settle on his back.


	2. Chapter 2

John closed his eyes, the din and clatter of the London streets fading blessedly into the background. Sherlock’s palms were moving up his back, settling on his shoulders, and John made a conscious effort to relax.

He could feel Sherlock breathing behind him, slow rhythmic movements that were being transferred to the strong hands gripping his shoulders. After several moments Sherlock’s hands moved to the back of John’s neck, thumbs digging into the stiff muscles.

John resisted the urge, as Sherlock’s hands moved over him, to mentally name the cervical vertebrae, cranial nerves, muscles of the back – it was a mental distraction he learned long ago. It was difficult to relax, difficult to turn off the urge to be ready to react at any given moment. Sherlock slid his hands through John’s hair, long fingers stopping to rub at his temples and sweep across his brow.

With the quiet in the flat and the slow and soothing motions of Sherlock’s hands, John’s body finally gave in. He slumped against the back of the couch, drained of energy. He felt Sherlock move and a moment later the couch dipped. Strong hands guided John back and he settled against Sherlock. A thin arm snaked around his waist, the other across his chest.

John drifted quietly in twilight, Sherlock’s heartbeat strong against his back.


	3. Chapter 3

There had been no break in their activities for nearly a week, the case having taken an unexpected turn some days ago. With the criminal behind bars, the loose ends being attended to by Lestrade, there was little else for John and Sherlock to do but attempt to get some much-needed rest.

Sherlock was often manic after cases, talking non-stop, and pacing the rooms with an exuberance that brought a smile to John’s face, despite the agitation and chaos that inevitably descended on the flat. This time, much to John’s relief, Sherlock was docile and seemed content to lounge about.

John dozed very lightly, still resting languidly against Sherlock’s chest. The rise and fall of Sherlock’s breathing had calmed his nerves and dulled the frenzied excitement of the day. John smiled as Sherlock slid a hand up the front of his jumper.

“Your hands are cold,” John mumbled quietly. He shivered as he felt Sherlock’s palm against his chest, stroking lightly over his heart. Sherlock’s other arm tightened around John’s waist.

“They’re always cold,” came the nearly inaudible reply. Sherlock trailed his fingers down John’s skin, making idle patterns on his flesh; the small movements he felt beneath his hands, the way John moved against him, fascinated him.

Sherlock ran his hand through John’s hair, fingers brushing faintly against his brow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein I lose the ability to end the story with the letter “B,” Sherlock and John retire to their room, and I fail to keep within the 221 word-limit.

Sherlock took John by the wrist, turning his palm over and looking rather clinically at the abrasions. John shrugged dismissively. “Just a scratch.” 

“From the scuffle?”

John nodded and twisted his hand, twining his fingers with Sherlock’s.

“Shall we to bed then, John?” Sherlock smiled slightly and sat up, taking the other man with him.

“That sounds grand.” John grabbed the arm of couch, pulling himself slowly to his feet. He stretched, wincing slightly at the dull ache that seemed to permeate his entire being. He followed Sherlock up the stairs, limping slightly.

“Purely for dramatic effect, I’m sure.” John could hear the slight smirk in Sherlock’s words.

“Absolutely not. I was shot, as it were. Remember?” John grinned up at the back of Sherlock’s head.

John had begun pulling off his shirt before reaching the top stair, stumbling a bit as he reached their room. Kicking off his shoes and gratefully shedding his socks, he limped out of his trousers before toppling unceremoniously onto the bed.

“What?” John looked at Sherlock, who eyed him from the other side of the room.

“Not the most graceful of entries.”

John grunted and rolled on his back, watching Sherlock, who disrobed with as much theatrics as most other things in his life.

“A bit over done, eh? You’ve only got one audience member tonight,” John sneered.

“But an audience nonetheless,” he whispered with a sly smirk, as he descended upon John.


End file.
